20. No One Clapped
Biscuit failure.
Didn’t sleep again. Mind racing. Chest tight. Heart pounding. Might be all the biscuits.
Need to be healthier. Chopped half a banana into my Coco Pops.
Had a meeting with the Boss first thing. He wants the project review finished today. Capitalised his voice without shouting.
Grabbed a coffee from the pantry. And a packet of chocolate digestives.
Settled down in front of my screen. Clicked into the report tab.
Watched it load.
Quickly checked my short story submission. No Claps. Searched how to get more views and found a Discord group for writers. Thought I’d get tips. Appreciation.
Took me over half an hour to sign up. Every username was taken. Ended up with a serial number.
Introduced myself. Nothing showed. Posted again, both popped up. Somehow joined the group twice.
Made a shopping list. Bread. Milk. Something for the mould in the shower. Maybe rat poison.
Started browsing for holidays.
-152. A Bit on the Side
Nothing Happened. Everything was round.
Booked the trip on a whim. Nine days in Side, Turkey. All-inclusive. I wanted sun, silence. A break.
Hoped it would do me good.
The flight over was too warm, and there was no water on board. They offered me tomato juice.
In the row ahead, a man lit a cigarette. No one stopped him. He puffed away on something cheap. Smelled like burnt cloves and floor cleaner.
As we descended, the air steward announced the airline’s CEO was on board. Asked us to join a round of applause.
The hotel was lovely. Big pool, marble floors, mirrored pillars. In the middle of a building site.
Half-finished hotels on either side, cranes frozen in the heat, stray dogs picking through piles of plasterboard.
Meals were on a strict schedule. Breakfast at seven. Lunch at noon. Dinner at five.
Everything was round. Discs of meat, flat bread, little pastries doused in syrup.
Large tables were set for twelve but occupied by one or two. We ate in silence, avoiding eye contact.
The all-you-can-drink bar had four options. Local beer in a can or one of three premixed cocktails: green, blue, and pink.
Pink was the best. You could pour it yourself.
Every evening from eight, local men swarmed into the hotel’s late bar. They danced in a circle with their arms around each other, linked hands, swaying.
I joined in once. No one said a word. No one smiled.
After a few nights, I went for a wander. The streets were dark and empty. It felt dangerous. Found a dingy bar blasting rock and roll into the abyss.
It exclusively played Led Zeppelin videos projected onto a massive screen. No menu, no conversation. Just Page, Plant, Jones, and Bonham.
They served kebabs cooked in earthenware jars, then smashed into a bowl. I’ve never eaten so much crockery.
Kept going back. Midweek, a lost-looking German couple walked in. The bartender looked surprised, too.
I joked it was nice for them to hear real music after all the David Hasselhoff at home.
The man rolled his eyes: “You all think we love him. We don’t. I have, like, one album by the Hoff.”
On the last day, I treated myself to an à la carte dinner in the hotel restaurant. It was the same food I’d had all holiday, only the waiter fetched it for me and put it on a fancy plate.
At nine-thirty, they turned off the music and switched on the lights. The staff wanted to go home. So did I.
Had a great time.
Most Dreadful Thing
Flash Fiction Prompt #5 | May 2025
Tide was low, the sea strained under a bruised sky.
His map was marked only with a cross. The trail had narrowed, as though it didn’t want him back.
He recognised the clearing, tucked behind a slump of rock and trees.
Earth had settled, and the mound was long gone.
It was quiet here now. Not empty. Just quiet.
He didn’t say her name. He didn’t bring flowers.
—
19. Only Bones Remain
Hunted by a dog I’ve never seen.
Still in bed. Day two. Can’t move my elbow.
Watched every episode of America’s Sweethearts. Go DCC. Those girls are so happy. So normal. When they cry, it seems healthy.
The neighbour’s dog hasn’t shut up. Each bark another stab in the head. Wrapped the pillow around me, but that only sealed it in.
Gave up on sleep. Wrote a story from a photo prompt: maps, gloves, compass. It looks like the start of something. Felt like the end.
Managed 71 words. Cut it till there were only bones left. No flowers.
Hungover. Hunted by a dog I’ve never seen.
-61. The Stranger Knows My Name
She looked down. Then back at me.
Wasn’t planning to go to the work do. Another sycophantic schmoozefest with corporate clients.
But the invite said open bar, and someone mentioned a charcuterie.
I got an email from HR about “representing the company” and “showing our best selves.”
Didn’t reply. Slipped out the office early to have a couple of liveners.
Nothing too hard. Few pints. Couple of tequilas. Hugh appeared with a bag of coke.
The party was in full swing when we arrived. Suits everywhere.
Clocked her straight away, the stranger. Across the room. Hair like poured ink. It flowed when she turned.
She stood tall. Still. Didn’t want to be noticed, but couldn’t help it. A dress the colour of midnight. Close-fitted but not showy.
One of the Simons was talking at her. He was laughing. She wasn’t. Seemed like she wanted to leave.
Had a couple more. Loosened up. Did a lap. Hugh gave me a look. “Don’t”.
Made me want it more.
Found her alone by the cloakroom. Said something clever to break the ice. She half-laughed. I asked her name. Forgot it.
She was quiet. I liked that.
I told her I was funny. Mentioned my missing cactus. Said it was a prickly situation. Asked if she knew anything about it.
Blank stare. Shouldn’t have used Hugh’s joke again.
Needed to trust my instincts. Act naturally. Asked why she was in my office that day. Did she know who I am?
She looked at me. Held it for a second. Maybe two. Touched her hair. Looked down. Then back at me.
We kissed.
Before she asked, I took her phone and put my number in. Called mine so I’d have hers. No awkward typing.
She stayed a bit longer. Then said she had to go. Early meeting. I offered to walk her to the station, but she had a car waiting.
Watched her go. Smiling.
Chuckled to myself as a Simon went after her.
18. Drunk and Red Hot with Joy
Popped out for two pints. Failed.
Only meant to have a couple.
Popped into the pub near the station. Two pints. Three tops. To take the edge off the week.
Hoped it would help me sleep.
Was about to go home when I saw the office crowd at All-Bar-One.
They seemed quiet, so I cracked a few jokes. Was feeling tipsy. More relaxed. More human.
Told them my wrong Simon story. Someone nearly choked on a crisp.
At one point, I mimed eating a stapler. Everyone laughed. I howled. Bent double, face red hot with joy.
People were nudging each other. Pointing at me, saying I’m not who they thought I was.
They loved it. For a little while, I was part of it. And I think I loved it too.
The pub had one of those loos with mirrored walls. Felt like I was surrounded. Nearly got into an argument with myself!
Slipped a little. Nothing dramatic. Bruised elbow. Wet trousers.
Left after that. Don’t think I said goodbye.
Woke up to a broken phone and sick on the floor.
War in The Pantry
An epic 55-word tale of office rivalry.
Her chocolate digestives were gone.
“I labelled them,” she said.
“I saw,” he replied.
“Why are you eating them?”
“I’m peckish.”
“They aren’t yours.”
He held out a half-eaten biscuit. A peace offering.
“I’m telling HR.”
She stared, waiting for a flinch.
He didn’t.
Keeping eye contact, he munched her biscuit. Slowly.
She left.
—
17. Might Need a Second Biscuit
A story of stolen digestives, hope, and HR.
There’s a Post-it on the fridge:
PLEASE DO NOT EAT OTHER PEOPLE’S BISCUITS
No smiley face.
Currently reviewing something I don’t remember with a team I don’t know. Accidentally volunteered to lead it.
Maybe my diary will take off. Then I could leave. Feels like it needs something to pull people in. A thread.
Looked at some Medium publications. One’s asking for 55-word stories. Seems achievable.
Her chocolate digestives were gone.
She looked accusingly at the handsome man. She knew.
“I labelled them,” she said.
“I saw,” he replied.
“So why did you eat them?”
“I was quite peckish.”
“They weren’t yours.”
The buff, handsome man flexed.
“I’m going to tell HR.”
The clever, rugged, devastatingly handsome man awaits his fate.
Might need a second draft.
16. Maybe She Didn’t Like My Meal Deal
She blinked like I wasn’t there.
Woke at 4:12. Listened to the barking.
Got to work early. Logged in. A motivational GIF had been pasted into the middle of my quarterly target spreadsheet.
The boss clocked me from across the room, then started walking over. I pretended not to notice. He asked how things were going with the review team.
I said, “Steady,” which sounded real enough.
He didn’t react. I think he’d already stopped listening.
There was a laugh behind. Not sure if it was directed my way.
At lunch, I went to Boots for a meal deal. Veggie BLT, salt & vinegar Hula Hoops, water. Splashed out on a Peperami for pudding.
Picked what looked like the fastest queue. Wrong.
Each customer took longer than the last with the girl at the checkout. Everyone was smiling. I couldn’t hear what was said, but they all seemed in on the joke.
The people in the other line sped through. Should I move?
I didn’t. Stood my ground. Stroking my sandwich.
When my turn came, the girl scanned, beeped, and blinked at me.
She gestured to tap my card.
Walked back to the office slowly. I’d eaten most of the food before I got to my desk.
Maybe the cashier didn’t like me. Maybe she didn’t like my meal deal combo.
15. Trying to Be the Best Version of Myself
Nothing I do feels right.
Spent all weekend reworking my CV. Nothing I added felt right. Scrapped it all. Made the font bigger.
Improved my education by dropping the Brookes after Oxford.
-68. She Deserved My Finger Wag
She stole my cactus. I caught her eye.
I saw her in Pret. Not by chance.
The queue was long, but I found my way behind her.
Her faint, floral lift tickled my senses. It was soft. Clean. Like hotel soap or freshly laundered clothes.
She picked up a ham and cheese. Same as me.
Caught her eye. Casually. Waved my lunch in her direction. “Good choice.”
She smiled, stroked her sandwich. “Only one without a soggy bottom. The cheese protects the bread.”
I grinned. “Do you work in my office?”
She stopped a beat to look at me. To take me in. “You did that presentation on Tuesday?”
“That’s right. You took a lot of notes! Your pen scratches.”
A tiny hmm. No apology. Another smile. Straight at me this time. “Well, must dash.”
She turned to pay with her phone. Quick tap. Gone.
—
The cashier asked me if I wanted anything else. Two times.
“Not from you”, I joked. “Sorry. Today not going as planned.”
Counted out some loose change and handed it over. Took too long. No sign of her when I got outside.
Should’ve used my card. Missed a chance to use the lines I’d rehearsed.
“Hey, so listen. Last week, I think you might have been in my office?” I’d say. “And you took my cactus!”
Delivered with a mock-stern face and a little finger wag.
She’d play along. Put her hands up. “Guilty!” Then I’d land my prickly situation gag. We’d both giggle.
“Got any plans later?”
—
Shouldn’t have said that thing about the pen. Had a mustard stain on my shirt, too. I got a new one that night. Fitted. Tried the same routine the next day.
“What are the chances?” I said. “Still no soggy bottom?”
Rubbish. Still makes me cringe.
Maybe if I’d played it better, she’d still be here.
Handcrafting the Perfect Sandwich
Includes notes on structure, seasoning, and technique.
Begin by clearing a suitable area for your prep. Not on top of the glass hob. A proper space that knows magic is about to happen.
Wipe it down with water only. Disinfecting spray might interfere with your masterpiece.
Optional: A butcher’s block. Heavy, solid, slightly scarred. It’s a versatile building place.
Place your tools to one side. A bread knife with heft. A tablespoon. A small plate. Spirit level.
This is your theatre, your performance.
Ingredients:
- Sourdough
- Full-fat butter (salted, unrefrigerated)
- Mature cheddar (the stronger, the better)
- Sliced chorizo (oily, with a bit of heat)
- Thick-cut ham (hand-carved, slow-roasted)
- Branston pickle (chunky)
- 1 ring of red onion
- A handful of rocket
- Freshly cracked black pepper
The sourdough must be tough. The real stuff. Chewy, gnarled, vaguely menacing. And it must have a jaw-testing crust. The kind that could sit in a bowl of tomato soup for hours and not notice.
Make each slice count.
Lay two pieces side by side. Choose the heaviest one to be your base. This is the hero. It will carry the weight of your sandwich.
Dig a tablespoon into your butter — take as much as you can get — then smother your leading wedge. Fill the holes and ridges. Leave nothing untouched.
Next, the cheddar. Pressed level. If it doesn’t smell like something you’d once tried to forget, get better. You want something your neighbour and her fucking dog can appreciate.
Slice the chorizo thin, but not too thin. About 3mm. It should be greasy, nearly black. Set it directly on the cheese to protect your bread.
Introduce the ham. It should have a little bark, as if turned on a spit beside a medieval hearth. Sturdy enough that it won’t fold. Absolutely no plastic-packed squares.
Add the Branston. A generous dollop. If it doesn’t immediately remind you of a village fête, you need more.
Find the right spot in the pickle for the onion. Go with your gut. Press it gently but firmly, deep enough that it holds.
If you’ve never trusted rocket, now is the time. Add some to bring out the flavour and colour. A handful, no more. It will betray you if you let it.
Finish with a crack or two of black pepper. Go easy. You’re seasoning, not punishing.
Cut it diagonally. Display it on the plate. Angle it like an open book. Savour every layer.
Take a moment. Give it a name.
Wipe the knife clean, but don’t wash it. It should still remember what it did.
The rest is between you and the sandwich.
—
14. How Do You Know You’re Alive?
The man with no pulse.
Applied for three jobs before getting out of bed. One mentioned “stakeholder mapping,” which sounds a bit like urban hunting.
Sun was out. Dare I take another sick day to enjoy it?
—
The office was cold. They’ve decided it’s summer and shut off the heating.
No milk in the pantry. I tried a black coffee. Bitter.
Took it to my desk and fired up the desktop. The news feed had an article about a man with an artificial heart. It whooshes blood around the body. It’s a scientific breakthrough. Fewer moving parts can break.
But it has no pulse.
Finished up some work admin and went back to the job search. Edited my cover letter. Made it worse.
Someone arrived with milk to great applause.
If your heart doesn’t beat, how do you know you’re not about to die?
Wrote an article about sandwiches. Sent it to a publication on Medium.
Checked my email. Nothing. Not even spam.
Googled how people know they’re alive.
In the afternoon, there was a meeting about targets. I sat there counting my heartbeats.
Someone presented slides. At the end, they asked for thoughts. I said, “Go back to basics. Review what isn’t working.”
The boss said I was right. He wants me to lead a review team. Surprising, after the warning.
Sun was still out, so I walked home, imagining the whoosh of blood in my chest.
Filled out seven more applications over dinner. A Penne Arrabiata. Something I saw Tim Lovejoy eat on Sunday Brunch.
Went to bed early and read.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
13. Half Dressed for Success
Nearly winning.
I’ve awoken with a new sense of purpose. Full of someone else’s joie de vivre, maybe.
There are plenty of other jobs. Ones I can tolerate. Maybe even be good at.
Opened my laptop and searched for “jobs that start at 11 am.”
The top result was a hybrid role promising a flat hierarchy and gentle onboarding.
I clicked through to apply and uploaded my CV. Then it asked me to re-enter all my work experience.
Closed the laptop. Started getting ready for work.
After putting on my shirt and socks, I stopped.
Sat back down and reopened the laptop without my trousers on.
12. A Formal Nothing to Worry About
Knew I‘d cop it when I stopped for coffee.
Got to work late again. Knew I was pushing it when I stopped for a coffee, but the thought of sitting at my desk without one felt worse than the consequences.
At 10:12, my boss appeared beside my desk and said, “Can we chat when you’ve got a moment?”
Didn’t sound annoyed. More concerned, which is worse. I followed him into his office and sat down. He closed the door.
He said, “Look. I want to check in. You’ve been coming in late a lot lately, and I wanted to make sure everything’s alright. You doing OK?”
I said, “Yeah.”
He nodded like he was waiting for more. I had nothing more to add.
“I don’t mean to pry. I want you to know if anything is going on, you can tell me. I’m not trying to catch you out. Just… Are you alright?”
I shrugged and said, “I must walk slower than I think I do. I leave home on time. And then somehow it’s ten past.”
He chuckled politely at that, like I’d told a joke.
Then he said, “I also noticed your output’s dropped a bit. Nothing dramatic. You’re usually more on top of things.”
I repeated, “I’m fine”.
He nodded again, his signature move. He thinks he’s supportive, but it felt like being nudged toward a confession I don’t have.
“If you’re struggling, I’m happy to make adjustments.”
I said, “The dog next door barks a lot. I’m tired.”
He sat back and looked at his screen. He clicked something.
“Well… I need to issue a formal warning for your timekeeping. It’s not a big deal. I wanted to speak first, just in case.”
I said I understood.
We shook hands at the end. Like we’d agreed on something.
Back at my desk, I made a coffee I didn’t want to drink. On cue, the formal warning pinged into my inbox.
Reread it until the mug went cold. I thought about deleting it. Thought about replying to it. About walking out and not coming back because of it.
Instead, I clicked “Mark as read.”
When I got home, I didn’t turn on the lights right away. The flat was unchanged.
I wasn’t.
The email said the warning wasn’t anything to worry about. I still got into bed with my shoes on.
11. The Hole Behind the Bin
Can’t stop thinking about it.
No alarm today. Bank holiday.
Woke around nine and dragged myself to the kitchen. Last night’s takeaway cartons were still on the counter.
Opened the cupboard under the sink and brushed the mess into the bin.
Saw the hole. Perfectly round. About the size of a pound coin.
Moved the bin to cover it.
Later, I went to the shop. It was busy. People were stocking up on barbecue food, bags of ice, and fruity-looking low-alcohol drinks.
I didn’t buy much.
Back home, I paced around. Opened a drawer. Then another.
-71. Shameful Trip to the Printer
I could smell the stranger.
I’d gone to the director’s floor for a presentation. These walls hadn’t heard a joke in years.
—
My stomach dropped. The universe wobbled. For a second (an hour?), I heard only pulse in my ears.
She was there.
The stranger that stole my office.
She sat at the back. Calm. Focused. Humming as she scribbled into a notebook.
Disrespectful.
Distracting.
—
People were staring at me.
I began the PowerPoint. Stumbled halfway through my first sentence.
Someone asked if I needed a moment. She didn’t react. Didn’t speak. Just wrote page after page.
About me?
The meeting ended, I lingered. Pretended to check my phone.
Watched her disappear down the corridor. The humming faded like a thought I couldn’t hold.
I followed. Drifted around until I found her.
She was alone. Still writing. Still humming.
Leaned on the printer to hide my shame. Observed. Listened. Told myself it was harmless curiosity. That I wanted to know what she wrote. What she thought about me.
Away from the others, her hum made sense. It had rhythm. Not quite a melody. More a code. Intentional.
Stayed long enough that someone asked if I was lost.
I said no. But I never found my way back.
10. What the Ceiling Says at 3am
Staring up. Not winning.
Can’t sleep. Again.
I’m lying here staring at the ceiling like we are having an argument. Don’t think I’m winning.
Buying this place was supposed to be a milestone. Something solid. I worked weekends, skipped nights out, and lived off Pot Noodles (Bombay Bad Boy. Allowed myself some treats).
I still remember the estate agent handing over the keys and me saying “cheers” like it was just another Tuesday. Then I walked around each room and whispered, “Ours.”
That was three years ago. I was nicer back then. Happier, anyway.
Now, there’s mould in the bathroom corner, a damp patch in the hallway, and a noise in the pipes, which I’ve decided is probably haunted.
But nothing gets fixed now. Not since I lost my proper job. I’m treading water at a 9–5 I think I’m better than, earning a shitty salary I need more than I want to admit.
I wish I’d rented. Then, at least, I could leave. Find something in budget.
Tried looking at selling, but I’d lose money.
So, instead, I lie here. Ruminating. Because I own these walls. I own the whole miserable square footage.
9. Today, I Said Nothing at Work
I not work proper.
Spent most of the day writing a Slack message. Nothing important. Just a reply in a thread no one’s touched since Monday.
First, I wrote:
“Happy to help if you need it!”
Then I went to make a coffee, while thinking about whether that sounded too eager. I came back and deleted it.
Typed:
“Let me know either way.”
Sat with that for a bit. Too passive-aggressive?
Tried again:
“No worries if not :)”
Deleted the smiley. Re-added the smiley. Then closed Slack. It still felt like I’d said too much.
To get my mind off it, I checked Bluesky. Noticed I’d used the word “here” twice in a row in a post about my diary.
I thought about leaving it. I told myself no one would notice.
Then I noticed. Again. And again. So I deleted the whole thing. It had three likes, too, which is a personal best.
Never did send that Slack message.
X. How to Write a Perfect Medium Post (Selling Your Soul to the Algorithm)
Author note: I edited the previous version for accuracy. Kept the coffee.
Opening hook. Opening hook. Opening hook. Opening hook. Opening hook. Opening hook. Opening hook. Opening hook. Opening hook. Opening hook. Opening hook. Opening hook. Opening hook. Opening hook. Opening hook. Opening
Clickbait Anecdote
Clickbait Anecdote. Clickbait Anecdote. Clickbait clicky Anecdote. Clickbait Anecdote. Clickbait Anecdote. Clickbait Anecdote. Clickbait Anecdote. Clickbait Anecdote.
Clickbait Anecdote. Clickbait Anecdote. Clickbait Anecdote. Clickbait Anecdote. Clickbait Anecdote. Clickbait Anecdote. Clickbait Anecdote. Clickbait Anecdote. Clickbait Anecdote. Clickbait Anecdote. Clickbait Anecdote. Clickbait Anecdote.
Clickbait Anecdote. Clickbait Anecdote. Clickbait Anecdote. Clickbait Anecdote. yes.
Internal Monologue
Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Slack. Thoughts.
Thoughts. My thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts.Thoughts. Thoughts. Skegness. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts.
Coffee
Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. You must mention fucking coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.
Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Perfect Sandwich. Coffee.Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee.
Misdirect
Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. The. Hole. Woof. Woof. Woof. Stranger. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Dreadful. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof.WOOf woof. woof.
Epic Conclusion
LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL
This sentence probably makes the post exactly six hundred words (not including the title).